Puta de Perro

As a teenager I was offered a dream job - babysit a Chihuahua. Some friends of my grandparents had this tiny dog, whose name I can't remember. But it must have been Prince or Baby or Sweetie or Precious or Sugar or Honey. Why else would part of my job entail picking up Arby's roast beef sandwiches for the little beast on my way over?

These people lived in Southfield in a nice home. Their grown son was a doctor, probably in his 40s, and after he discovered the new 16-year-old babysitter, he'd drop by regularly and hit on me. Euww.

But the dog...of course I had to come for a preliminary interview/screening before I was given the job. The wife, I think, was worse than her husband, who I really liked, and she placed monumental importance on the task of watching her skinny, minuscule, canine. I passed, remarkably, without a drug test or even a second interview, and I was granted the privilege of staying at home with the infinitesimal cur while they went to dinner, the movies, wherever people who worship their dogs spend their free time.

Now, I should mention, because really, this is the point of the story, that when my presence was considered to be just a visit, when Honey-Baby-Precious was surrounded by his mommy and daddy, all was fine. I petted him and he let me. I talked to him and his ears perked. I let him sniff. He let me feed him a treat. This job, I thought, was going to be a piece of cake. Just give me my $3.00-something per hour and I'll watch your pooch - no problem.

My first evening of work: after receiving a phone call from the wife asking me to stop at Arby's, I arrived at their house. I was greeted by the happy parents and their little angel. Roast beef was gobbled, goodbyes and kisses all around (the dog, that is) and they were off. It was me and the little fiend.

All that jerk did was bark and growl at me. I tried to touch him, to make nice, and he bit me. He was mean, snarly and pigheaded. He thought he was so smart, but he failed to realize the important thing here: I could talk; he could not. When Mr. and Mrs. Doggy came home that night, my report was glowing. Yes, he made a nice poo-poo. Of course he didn't overexert himself on his walk. No, I did not like him one bit and if I had my druthers he'd be turning slowly on a spit in your oven right now. Oh, I didn't say that last one. I knew which side my bread was buttered on. The little snot may have bitten the hand that fed him, but I wasn't that dumb.

So I went back again and again. And for some crazy reason, that nasty dog never behaved as though he didn't like me in front of his owners. But the minute they left, the act was all over.

It was good while it lasted, then for some reason they stopped calling. I think one of three things may have happened: they finally figured out that paying for a person to babysit a creature who could survive on the streets by itself if it had to was no longer in the budget, the mutt died, or he learned how to talk.